“Go! Be Miss Indiana Jones and seek and find.”
Kate leaped off the bed and was instantly at the door. “With Harrison Ford I’d be a Mrs.,” she called to him as she ran down the corridor. She didn’t seem to be aware that she was barefoot.
Smiling, Jack got off the bed, picked up Kate’s shoes and put them outside the door where she could find them. She loved all things historical so much that he wondered if she’d miss them.
As he left, he didn’t bother going back through the labyrinth Kate had led him through but went toward the main part of the house. It was silent, the lush carpets cushioning all sound. The walls were covered in pale gold silk brocade, and giant oil portraits were everywhere. The halls were wide enough that furniture was on both sides. Little half-round tables, small sofas, museum-quality chairs lined the way. As a builder, Jack knew the price of it all—and it had cost Sara a lot of money.
When he saw an abnormally narrow door, he opened it. As he’d guessed, it concealed a servants’ staircase, where they’d probably hauled up buckets of hot water. He went down and wasn’t surprised to enter the kitchen.
Mrs. Aiken was there with her pans and bowls. Jack took a breath, put on his most pleasant face and stepped forward. He smiled at the woman, but she glared back. “I was wondering where Puck is,” he said.
“She’s in that house Nicky gave her.”
Jack blinked at the woman’s tone. If her words were put in a text, there would be a skeleton emoji by “that house” and a smiley face with hearts by the word “Nicky.”
Sara Medlar, you owe me, he thought, and cleared his throat. “Nicky liked Puck?”
“Young Master Nicky liked everyone. He was kind and generous to all. He would have made a wonderful earl. But someone killed him.”
At that pronouncement, Jack wanted to run to get Sara and Kate and fly home. Not another murder! “I hadn’t heard that,” Jack said. “You think he was murdered?”
“Of course. That’s what his father said at the funeral. ‘Which one of you bastards killed my son?’”
“And the bastards were...?”
“Them. The ones I’m supposed to cook for. They want to re-create that weekend when they killed dear Nicky. What I don’t understand is why?”
“Sorry to be dense, but I thought he died years after that party.”
“His body was smashed by a tree but his soul died that night. When she left him. She walked out with Nicky’s heart.”
Jack was confused. “Is this Diana? She and Nicky were a couple?”
Mrs. Aiken squinted at him in threat. “Are you here to interrogate me? Find out what I know to be true?”
Jack smiled in a way that he knew women liked. “If I say yes, will you tell me the story?”
She gave no smile in return. “You’re like him.”
“Nicky?”
“No, the other one. Thorpe. Worked in the stables.” Her tone sounded as though the man was a criminal. “He used to come in here and steal food. I knew it was for someone he was meeting. Didn’t know it was for the love of Nicky’s life. Nicky could have had anyone, but he chose her. Then that man stole her.” She looked at Jack as though it was his fault.
Jack would have liked to ask more questions but he didn’t think he’d get anywhere. It was better that he change the subject. “Where is Puck’s house?”
“Why do you want to know?”
She made Jack sound like a predator. “I—” He didn’t say any more because a phone on the wall rang and she grabbed it. With a look at Jack like he was a spy trying to find out her secrets, she stepped into the pantry and loudly shut the door behind her.
Jack’s first thought was If there is a murder in all this, I hope she did it. He’d like to see her in handcuffs. As he started to leave the big kitchen, the oven timer went off. He couldn’t let whatever was in there burn. He opened the oven door and pulled out three sheets full of little potpies. They looked delicious. With a quick glance at the closed pantry door, he wrapped four of them in a white kitchen towel. There were half a dozen bottles of wine on the counter by the door and he took one.
He didn’t run across the drive, but he certainly hurried.
Oxley Manor covered acres and there were buildings everywhere. Had there been people about, he would have asked directions but it was eerily deserted. There were fields with empty farm machinery. Houses with no signs of life.
Even if he found Puck’s house, he didn’t know if she’d be there.
When he came to a stone wall, a continuation of the one at the gate, he started to turn back. But then he saw a cemetery. The old headstones were covered in moss, the faces of angels blurred by time and weather.
At the end was a house. It was three stories tall, very narrow, with an octagon-shaped tower in the corner. At the bottom, almost hidden from view, was a pointed arch with an iron gate across it. It was not a place most people would want to enter, certainly not to live in. Jack had no doubt that it was Puck’s house.
He made his way through the gravestones. The names were mostly Renlow, third, fourth, eighth, etc, earl of Oxley. He paused at one for a Nicholas, died 1996.
As he read the words about being a beloved son, a movement caught his eye. It was Puck standing in the doorway.
With a slight tilt of her head, she motioned for him to follow her inside.
When he got to the entrance, he saw that the gate could be locked. To get to the front door he had to go up a winding staircase. There was no way that someone could enter her house secretly.
He stopped at the top of the entry stairs and was in a tiny hallway with coat hooks and a bench. There was a heavy door—another security measure—standing ajar. He pushed it open and entered a large, light room with a kitchen at one end and a living area at the other. The rooms were separated by a huge oak table, which was covered with dried plants, spools of wire and string, and several pairs of pliers. On the walls were wreaths made of herbs. They were elaborate and beautiful works of art. No wonder they sold!
Puck was standing by the kitchen sink that was slate and big enough to bathe a calf. From the overhead rafters hung hundreds of tied bundles of herbs.
“This is beautiful,” Jack said.
Her face pinkened at his heartfelt compliment.
He held up his packet of pies. “I stole these from your mother. She’ll probably kill me, so let’s enjoy them before she ends my life.”
Puck gave a laugh that was a bit like the sound of bells. It was quite pleasing—and he guessed that it was rarely heard by anyone.
Jack held up the wine bottle. “You have any glasses?”